Étendre Mon Ailes
by KiraKira-Kirimi
Summary: Jojo is offered the opportunity of the lifetime, he is beyond seventh heaven. However, his father isn’t so sure. What will Jojo do to chase his dreams?
1. Chapter 1

**Étendre Mon Ailes (To Extend My Wings)**

**Summary: **When Jojo is offered the opportunity of the lifetime, he is beyond seventh heaven. However, his father isn't so sure. What will Jojo do to chase his dreams?

**A/N:** Okay, here's my first fanfiction for _Horton Hears a Who__**, **_and I know that not many people will read it. XD Oh, well. This also isn't Jojo x OC – I really can't stand that. No offense to you who do, but I can't. Anyways, enjoy!

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The crowded halls of Whoville High were only what could be described as a waiting deathtrap, as Jojo darted frantically through the hordes of teenage Whos. Why, oh why did the halls have to twist and turn so much? Why couldn't they be wider? And for goodness' sake, why did the kids have to suddenly stop in their tracks when they spotted a friend?

It was all slowing him down, and Jojo _couldn't _be late.

In his last class, Jojo had stayed behind to clarify a few last-minute details about an upcoming project, but he hadn't at all anticipated how long it would take. And now, terribly delayed, he sprinted down the hallways in a hurried fever, hardly pausing to apologize as he knocked against an underclassman.

The late bell screamed just moments before Jojo hurtled through the door.

The wide, sky-lit orchestra room was already bustling with juvenile energy as the freshmen hastened to unpack and set up, with only a select few seeming to notice his tardiness. Jojo implored them to keep their silence with a wide-eyed gaze as he slipped discreetly around the back. But unfortunately, all the stealth he could muster still fell astoundingly short of adequacy.

"Why are you late, boy?"

At the sound of the strident, irate demand, Jojo jumped. From behind him emanated an ice-cold glare that made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. And as he turned, suppressing a gulp, he felt remarkably insignificant under the towering figure of his conductor.

There was just something about the way that Mr. Nauvoo held himself that made you want to flee upon the first moment you lay eyes on him. Extraordinarily tall and lean, he used every inch of his superior height to scrutinize his students with all the mercy of the devil himself, and the cold blue of his eyes seemed only intensified over his frameless, rectangular glasses. His white-blonde hair was combed back perfectly, hanging down his neck with just enough curl to seem bombastic – a trait only supported by his perfectly-creased khakis and haughty gaze. His entire complexion was of lighter shades, right down to his soft beige sweater and white shoes, yet, somehow, the light did not detract from his frightening demeanor in the least. Indeed, it had earned him the well-used nickname: Ice Demon.

This nickname echoed ominously in Jojo's head as he swallowed. "S-sorry, sir," he stammered. "I was talking to my history teacher."

"Regardless," Mr. Nauvoo retorted, his tone sharp. "I expect better from you. As teacher's assistant, you should be setting an example for the younger students."

"Yessir. It won't happen again."

Mr. Nauvoo's frown deepened, and he scrutinized Jojo with a glare so cold it would put a blizzard to shame. Anxiously, Jojo struggled not to fidget as he felt his heart pound erratically in his chest. But then, Mr. Nauvoo turned away. "It had better not."

Finally released from the terror of Mr. Nauvoo's gaze, Jojo let out a heavy sigh of relief. Perhaps four years of daily encounters would be enough for him to grow more comfortable around most people, but Mr. Nauvoo was a far cry from normality. And frankly, it would take an eternity to _ever_ grow comfortable around him.

"Jojo!" Mr. Nauvoo snapped suddenly. "Why are you idling? Get started, boy!"

"Y-yessir!" Jojo hastily replied as he scrambled to regain his composure. And ignoring the half-sympathetic sniggers around him, he hastened to the front.

Beyond his four years of music throughout his time in high school, Jojo had approached Mr. Nauvoo at the beginning of his junior year in the inquiry of extra credits. Of course, he nearly wet himself at the very prospect of talking one-on-one with the Ice Demon himself, but a sudden burst of miraculous courage had carried him through. And he had only spoken at about two-hundred miles per hour.

But apparently having been well-rehearsed in the language of nerves, Mr. Nauvoo had understood what Jojo was stammering about and curtly interrupted him in a slightly-vexed tone. Throughout the conversation, Jojo's anxieties never entirely left him, but eventually, they began to creep back when it became apparent that Mr. Nauvoo was not about to kill him on the spot. But it still wasn't helpful when Mr. Nauvoo informed him that the one such course he did offer would make every other AP class in the school seem like first grade.

Of course, Jojo could hardly admit to expecting any less, having considered the character of the teacher in question. With a barely audible pause, Jojo had breathlessly agreed to the course and sold his soul to the Ice Demon.

Amongst many other tasks so daunting and grueling that he physically hurt to think of them, Jojo now spent every Wednesday and Thursday as conductor for the freshman orchestra. It wasn't exactly laziness on Mr. Nauvoo's part, as he still lounged behind his desk, grading Jojo on his performance and the other students on theirs. Still, Jojo fancied that there was something a little maniacal in his gaze, almost contented.

Now, as Jojo stood before the conductor's stand, he felt suddenly inferior.

The music stand loomed a full two feet over his head, adjusted menacingly to Mr. Nauvoo's extraordinary height. He stared at it blankly for a moment. Although this was a common occurrence, having been faced with it almost every time he took the front, Jojo could not help wishing _again_ that he were taller, or that Mr. Nauvoo was shorter. He was fully-convinced that a less dynamic difference in height would lessen the terror of the entire experience, if even to heart-racing rather than heart-stopping.

But as many falling stars he wished on, it would never happen, as he had told himself only countless times beforehand. And with a sigh, Jojo ruefully retrieved his all-degrading stepstool.

When the music was finally below the top of his head, Jojo tapped the stand for silence, and obediently, the last pluck faded into a smudge of memory; perhaps today's conductor was nothing more than the shortest, quietest senior in the entire student body, but it was impossible to forget the arctic presence of Mr. Nauvoo as he lounged threateningly behind his desk.

"Is everyone ready?" Jojo asked finally.

A mumbled chorus of "yes's" met his words, for the few "no's" were too petrified to speak. Meeting the eyes of a few silent violinists, Jojo wordlessly gave them a last thirty seconds to hastily prepare and straightened his score idly. Nonetheless, the scratch of Mr. Nauvoo's pencil as he noted the students who were rustling hurriedly through their papers resonated throughout the room like a death sentence.

"We were working on the crescendo at measure seventy-two of rondo yesterday," Jojo continued when the rustle faded. "So let's start there. And remember, the beginning is _pianissimo_."

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The careful concentration of the freshman broke in a flurry of action as the bell's shriek reverberated throughout the room. Jojo sighed in slight relief, setting the conductor's baton on the stand. Yet at the same time, a small smile was playing at the corner of his lips. As much as Mr. Nauvoo terrified him, he loved every moment of his extra work with music, and his bi-weekly classes with the freshmen were to him like sugar was to a child. And if he did say so himself, today's class had been the best yet.

Thus, when the telltale ice of Mr. Nauvoo's presence washed over him, Jojo glanced up in eager alacrity. He was sure that his grade for today's performance would far outstrip everything he had ever received in any of his music classes, and his fingers were almost twitching from the apprehension.

"Jojo, come over to my desk. I want to talk to you."

But at the sound of Mr. Nauvoo's curt instruction, Jojo's elation snapped like a too-taunt elastic. Mr. Nauvoo had always given him his grade right there, without concern for discretion or privacy, and had never before called him to the desk. In fact, the only time Jojo had ever seen anyone invited over to Mr. Nauvoo's desk, it was to give detention or a failing grade.

As this thought crossed Jojo's mind, he suddenly felt the bottom of his stomach open up into a mind-numbing void of terror. He couldn't be failing. It just wasn't possible, not after all he had done for the extra course and its credits. The past year flashed rapidly before his eyes, like a pre-death memory, and Jojo could almost feel every minute of burned midnight oil slipping by his fingers. Jojo couldn't believe it. He wanted to cry.

But somehow, he managed to retain his composure as he stumbled unseeingly towards Mr. Nauvoo.

"Y-yes, sir?" Jojo mumbled quietly when he was finally standing in the full blast of the arctic glare. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"I did," Mr. Nauvoo replied curtly. "See, I received something in the mail for you."

Jojo's terrified thoughts screeched to a sudden halt, and he stared at Mr. Nauvoo uncomprehendingly. Whatever could the mail have to do with his grade?

But Mr. Nauvoo just arched his eyebrows, seemingly amused by Jojo's confusion. This only bewildered Jojo more. Mr. Nauvoo had never given a failing grade in such a joking manner before, and he had never, regardless of the situation, ever worn an expression quite so close to smile. What was going on?

"Here," Mr. Nauvoo announced finally, proffering to him a small, official-looking envelope. Obediently, Jojo grasped it.

The envelope was of an impressive beige color, with a small, intricate symbol adorning the top left corner of the paper. The sign tugged somewhere at the back of Jojo's memory, but he couldn't quite grasp where he'd seen it before, and he pushed the nagging thoughts away. Pausing, Jojo squinted at the address, which was almost a work of art in itself. The words flowed in neat, elegant calligraphy, and even the dot of the 'j' seemed to sing prestige.

He swallowed, staring up at Mr. Nauvoo in speechless wonder.

"Well?" Mr. Nauvoo demanded. "Open it, boy!"

Finally, his heart beating fit to burst, Jojo carefully pushed his thumb to the flap and pulled. The envelope tore perfectly beneath his fingers. Inside lay nestled a tri-folded paper of the same proud beige, and as Jojo liberated it from its confines, he saw gilding the back the watermark of the same symbol he'd noticed earlier. At this point, Jojo was almost certain he wasn't about to be failed, but nonetheless, his chest was wrung in a breathless anticipation, and he could hardly unfold the paper.

But he managed somehow, and as he scanned the letter, his eyes grew rounder and rounder, until any onlooker would have been shocked that they didn't fall out of his head. His expression bright with shock and excitement, Jojo finally glanced up to meet Mr. Nauvoo's gaze. To his immense surprise, beyond the carefully-arranged mask of indifference, a small spark of excitement was dancing in the vivid blue of Mr. Nauvoo's eyes.

"A full scholarship . . . to Wholliard?" Jojo breathed.

Mr. Nauvoo nodded curtly, but it seemed it was all he could do to suppress the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips. "To study music theory," he clarified. "They saw your composition from last year, and were extremely impressed. This was only to be expected."

"But, Mr. Nauvoo! This is the most prestigious music school possible!"

"And you're a prestigious student," he replied. "Just don't disappoint me."

Jojo stared at him, lost for words. That was the closest thing to a compliment he had had ever heard Mr. Nauvoo utter, and he could hardly be sure he wasn't hallucinating. "B-but I never applied for a scholarship."

"Well, of course you didn't; I've never met a student with less common sense. If I didn't fill it out for you, nothing would have happened."

"You applied me?" Jojo couldn't believe his ears. It was so uncharacteristic of Mr. Nauvoo that he almost expected a sudden shout of 'April Fools!' or the like – except that wasn't characteristic of Mr. Nauvoo, either.

"If you insist on stating the obvious, yes," Mr. Nauvoo answered curtly. And then, reaching into his top drawer, he withdrew a thick folder of papers and pushed them across the desk. Curiously, Jojo took them as he explained: "These are just a few last forms for your parents to sign so that you can go. Now, hurry; I'm not writing you a pass."

As if on cue, the bell cried out just then in its high-pitched wail. And Jojo, feeling his much-abused heart skip another beat, pushed the folder and the envelope roughly into his bag. "Bye, Mr. Nauvoo! Thank you so much!"

"I'll see you tomorrow. Good day."

But for Jojo, the rest of the day passed in a blur. He was soaring on the wings of his elation, his teacher's reprimands of his inattention no more significant than a passing bird. He had gotten a full scholarship to Wholliard. He was going to study music. And to him, nothing else mattered.

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**I hope you enjoyed chapter one of this fic. ^.^ I will put more up later, but I'm very busy right now; I most likely won't be faster than a chapter a month. Regardless, I will finish, so please stand by. **

**~ KiraKira-Kirimi**


	2. Chapter 2

**Entendre Mis Alas**

**Chapter 2**

Jojo lingered at the fringe of the sea of sisters, peering about for an opening. The letter from Wholliard was gripped nervously in his right hand, and although his touch was gentle, the dirt and grime from his fingers was beginning to smudge upon the soft beige. He didn't notice. He needed to show his parents _now_; they just had to sign it _now_. Perhaps reason assured him that the scholarship would not vanish in a puff of smoke at any moment, but his heart was pounding fit to burst.

"Oh, hello, Jojo!" As if on cue, his mother appeared before him, a homely smile bright upon her lips. "Had a good day?" She dropped a kiss on his forehead and pressed a cookie into his hands.

But she didn't even wait for a reply. Before Jojo could so much as open his mouth to answer – let alone tell her about his scholarship! – she'd suddenly vanished. The sea of sisters had absorbed her, effectively cutting them off from any and all contact. Jojo sighed. Somewhere in that surging crowd, his mother was single-handedly controlling an army of hungry schoolgirls, and it was painfully clear that she had no time to listen to him now.

Silent and unnoticed, Jojo slipped from the room. He left the cookie behind.

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Even if his mother was too busy to pay attention to him, Jojo's father _never _gave him a moment's peace. Normally, it was thoroughly irritating habit, and one that Jojo would give anything to be free of. But just this once, however, perhaps it could be put to good use.

For the hundredth time that minute, Jojo glanced expectantly out his window. Calculus homework lay strewn on the floor before him, but he hadn't gotten past the first three problems in the past hour he'd been there. His father wasn't yet home, and every passing moment was fraying his nerves mercilessly. It wasn't the first time his father had been late from work. As mayor of the entirety of Whoville, it was only understandable that he was frequently snowed under with work, and only more so when one considered how the Town Council went out of their way to defy him. But still – today of all days!

Jojo chewed his lower lip, tearing his gaze away from the window. It was not _imperative _that he get the forms signed at that very minute – after all, it wasn't as if they were even _due_ tomorrow. On the other hand, he did have a Calculus test tomorrow, and if he didn't keep his grades up, Wholliard could very well take away his scholarship.

With a heavy sigh, Jojo bent down to reread the problem –

Just as the front door opened.

"Daddy's home!" Holly cried from the bottom of the stairs.

A chorus of excited shrieks answered her, and the thunder of hundreds of little feet echoed through the hallways.

"Daddy, daddy!"

"Daaad! I wanna go to the school dance tomorrow!"

"Can I go shopping with Lizzy?"

"Look! Look! I brought my Whoville Literature grade up to a C! Can I not be grounded anymore?"

And Sally's imperative: "Hush, girls. Give Daddy some space; he's tired."

It was a daily, migraine-inducing racket, and Jojo generally did his best to stay away from it. Today, however, was an exception. Slamming his Calculus book shut, he leapt to his feet and raced from his room with his sisters.

The crowd outside was suffocating – ninety-odd children anywhere from one to fourteen was never a good idea, especially when they were all vying for the attentions of one person. Most of them would never get more than a nod or a smile, and yet each one was nonetheless determined to get in her own two cents. If Jojo didn't have VIP access, he would have never gotten within twenty square feet of his father.

But as it was, the moment Ned spotted Jojo amongst the crowd of girls, his eyes brightened excitedly. "Hey, Jojo, my man!" he called out. "You finished your homework early today?"

A collective groan rose up from the sisters. Jojo couldn't blame them; he _was_ all-too-obviously his father's favorite, and whenever he was in the vicinity, no one else ever got any attention. Perhaps it was somewhat cruel to steal this time from his sisters, but Jojo couldn't help it. If he waited any longer, he would go crazy with anxiety – and besides, they'd had this time to themselves for _years_. One day couldn't hurt.

Jojo's lip twitched weakly, imitating a smile. "I still have some Calculus," he replied.

"But you still found time to say 'hi'!" Ned announced cheerfully. "You _never _do that!"

"Yeah, well . . . I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh? What is it?" Suddenly, he dropped his voice to a stage-whisper. "Is it about . . . a _girl_?"

His sisters twittered excitedly, and Jojo felt his cheeks turn pink. "No! It's not!"

"Oh? What is it then?"

"Um . . ." Nervously, Jojo proffered the letter from Wholliard. "This. I – I got a full scholarship to study music theory."

The effect was instantaneous. The previously-hushed room broke into babble, each and every sister voicing her own views on the news.

"What? Oh, come on! Why does he get everything?"

"Is it forged?"

"Well, I knew he was good, but I didn't know he was _that_ good . . ."

"Jojo, can you get _me _in, too?"

But Jojo ignored them all, focusing solely on his father. "Dad?" he pressed, for Ned seemed to have gone oddly silent. "Could you sign it?"

"Oh, well." Ned cleared his throat. "Wholliard, you say?"

"Yeah."

"You mean, that really big music college?"

"It's the best, Dad," Jojo sighed, somewhat exasperated. "Could you sign already?"

But Ned wasn't quite finished. He drew himself up to his full height, adjusting the mayoral crest emblazoned upon his chest. "The best, huh? Well, it's good to know that the _best_ have got their heads screwed on right! Who _wouldn't _want my son at their school?"

"_Dad_," Jojo pleaded, for the glares he was beginning to receive from his sisters promised some very bad things to come. "If you could just sign –,"

"– I mean! You, my man, have done some very amazing things in your young life. From that observatory to your academics to saving all of _Whoville_, you've got to be the most impressive young man Whoville High has to offer. I almost feel bad for this Wholliard. When they hear you _won't_ be attending –,"

"– Wait, _what_?" Jojo cut him off frantically. He couldn't believe his ears – he just couldn't. His father _did _not just say that.

Ned paused in his tirade, peering down affectionately at his only son. "Oh, Jojo. Did you think you were going to go there to help our financial burden? But if you took it, Jojo, you'd have to study _music theory_. Don't you worry; it may be a little extra coin out of our pockets, but your mother and I will pay for you to study at a good political science program, okay? You don't have to take this scholarship – but I'm _indescribably _proud of you for getting it."

Ned patted Jojo's head with a soft smile. Then, his job done, he turned away.

Jojo, however, was trembling, his eyes blazing with frustration and anger. He couldn't believe it – couldn't understand how his father could be so incurably _dense_. He gaped open-mouthed at Ned's retreating back, lost for words. But then, as Ned began to hum some playful tune and play with Hilda's bow, Jojo suddenly snapped.

"What the _hell_, Dad? Don't you get it? _I want to go to Wholliard! _I don't want to study your _damn _political science; I don't want to be the freakin' _Mayor_!"

"Jojo?" Ned whispered hoarsely.

But Jojo ignored him. "I want to study _music_!" he ranted, feeling his eyes burn with tears of frustration. "And I can't believe you don't _get that_! You just keep saying: 'Be mayor; be mayor! Look at this lineage!', and you never give a _crap _about what I really want!"

His sisters were staring at him, numb with shock. None of them had ever heard so many words spill from Jojo's mouth at one time – let alone so many borderline obscenities. He'd been silent for years, and remained considerably quiet even when he finally began to speak; such an outburst was entirely unprecedented.

Jojo was still seething, his smoldering glare fixed upon his father. But it seemed like he'd exhausted his words. He set his jaw, his hands curled into fists at his sides – once more thoroughly silent.

Ned, on the other hand, seemed to have finally recovered himself. He drew himself up, evenly meeting Jojo's furious scowl. "Jojo," he said firmly. "Firstly, you know better than to use that kind of language in front of your sisters. But more importantly, I have always done what was best for you, and I always will. I realize you enjoy music, but it is not a livelihood. I encourage your interest, and let you pursue your hobby, but its time you began to focus on the future. Music will not bring you a good income – and I'm offering you a strong, stable career as mayor of Whoville! You will _not_ go to Wholliard."

"But –!" Jojo began.

"_No_, Jojo." But Ned's eyes had softened, and he murmured softly: "I'm sorry, son. I know you really wanted this, but it'd be better if you went to Who U. And besides, you can still do some music there, right? They have a pretty big orchestra."

For a moment, Jojo held his gaze steadily. But the fire had died; his eyes were dull and despondent, and his jaw had gone slack. "Dad . . ." he whispered, but then seemed to think better of it. He bit his lip, forcing back the tears of frustration that threatened to spill over.

Alone despite the crowd around him, Jojo spun on his heel and sprinted away.

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**Be honest; who thought I'd abandoned this story for good? XD Shocked you a bit there, didn't I? Still, sorry it took me so **_**absurdly **_**long to update – although I do hope my writing skills have increased significantly since the last chapter. If I do say so myself, I think I rather effectively dealt with that **_**nasty**_** purple prose. =P**

**As always, I am eager to hear your reviews – constructive criticism as well (if not more) than praise. Every reviewer gets an e-cookie, especially if I find a way to better my writing as a result, so press that pretty li'l button and review already! **

**~ KiraKira-Kirimi**


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